


Inktober 2018

by stephanericher



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, ヒプノシスマイク | Hypnosis Mic (Albums)
Genre: Inktober, Inktober 2018, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-11 05:50:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16469954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: A collection of short fics, initially written in pen and posted to twitter, using the official Inktober 2018 prompt list.





	1. Poisonous (haikaga)

**Author's Note:**

> original twitter thread can be found [here](https://twitter.com/lemaireality/status/1046876327360516101)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nba au

Shougo used to want to be poisonous. Stick anyone who tried to touch him with a nasty burn, a scar running elbow to fingertip, the smell of their sizzling, useless flesh fried away. He used to think that was a way--the way, the only option left for him, if there were every any others--to leave his mark, for him to matter. (If you exist in the world, bloom and erupt like a volcano, where no one sees or traces the rise in temperature, the smoke, back to you, does it matter that you were there?) To speak loud enough to shout down or silence everyone else, long enough to outlast them.

Sometimes, he still thinks this way. Sometimes it stays in his head, passes slowly like dirty water through a clogged drain. It's too ingrained within him to stay out forever, or even for very long. A shock, something that gets him to blink and flinch, and the poison bubbles up in his veins like acid, taking the place of blood, of regulated heartbeats. Someone gets under his skin and he needs to melt theirs right off, to cover up, to get back on top. He punches an opponent and blood pours from the guy's nose; he shoves someone down under the hoop; he swears in three languages at once at the goon who'd elbowed him with no call.

But the poison recedes, spilling over onto his own skin as it goes, and he's left with regret and humiliation, a phone that fits neatly in his palm and doesn't vibrate, and Shougo almost doesn't want it to. He'd rather silence than Taiga's disappointment, even when he's awake and waiting for it to just happen so he can deal with it. It's not that waiting's part of the punishment Taiga's dealing out--that's not his job, and Shougo's always been good at punishing himself.

It's the, "I thought you were trying to change" and the, "I wanted to play against you and I know you didn't want to be suspended". Its not all this being in love makes you a better person bullshit. (If he is better than he was, and who the fuck knows.) It's that he wants to do better and get a better contract because he's not a liability and he's not going to miss ten games a year suspended. He wants to play against Taiga because, yeah, basketball isn't everything, but the way Taiga plays against him makes him feel like he matters.

Without poison or scars or a notch in any kind of record book, he matters. It's cheesy and hell, and it's not the only reason this shit makes him feel bad. But it's there; Shougo has to admit that much. So he lets the poison seep away, all over again. He can't get anywhere without daring himself to try.


	2. Tranquil (kagahimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nba au

The way Taiga plays does not look calm. Fierce, rough (not in a rough you up kind of way, but in a way that color commentators hype up as natural and intuitive), liquid, step into jump into jam that rattles the hoop and the backboard and the roof, tearing it off the whole fucking arena. It's the opposite of tranquil on the surface, a rolling boil it's easy to get lost in. But that's just how it looks, if you're not paying attention, if you haven't always, if you're not using it as a yardstick (or a football field, really, it's way too vast to fit in Tatsuya twice).

Taiga had once been all jagged edges, jerry-rigged skills sticking out like flaking papier-mache from a school project brought home at the end of the year only to be thrown in the trash. His movements had been one, a disruption, a decision, a conscious thought or a moment before his mind had caught up with his body and recognized the decision. They'd both been younger, then, but it had changed, gradually, but all of a sudden the fury at the surface was just Tatsuya's reflection and below that was a flow, an unconscious process, ice that stopped the most rocking of blows. That even when Taiga's riding the high of fifty thousand screaming, stomping fans and double-digit unanswered points, fired up, sweating, pumping his fist, part of him is calm. (Maybe Tatsuya's playing it up in his head--but not that much. He's a little jealous, more than a little captivated, but that's how he is with everything about Taiga.)

It's different from when they're alone, with only the implication of basketball (as if that's some small thing, all the knotted years and more stacked on top) between them. There's no thread of constancy humming through Taiga, and there's no pretense of something similar that Tatsuya can sustain inside himself for very long. They're both live wires, volatile, bubbling over and up against each other. And Taiga, like this, makes Tatsuya stop thinking about all of it. The inside and out, the calm or lack thereof. It's just them, messy as they are.


	3. Roasted (liuhimu)

"I've never had roasted chestnuts," says Himuro.

It's a hint slightly less oblique than usual, and Liu's already been thinking about it. It's ridiculous to frame a relationship as a competition. Still, it feels as if Himuro's laid down a bad poker hand after Liu's folded, yet again. But if it's Himuro, Liu doesn't mind losing quite so much (even though he minds an extra bit at the same time).

"I'll take two," he says, and fishes in his pocket for the money. The vendor obliges, and hands two packets over to Himuro.

Himuro pops a chestnut into his mouth, chews, and frowns slightly. Liu shoves a handful into his own mouth at once (too late, he remembers being teased for eating too much; he's kept it in check around Himuro before--Himuro appears not to notice his chipmunk cheeks, though, thankfully).

"Kind of anticlimactic," Himuro says.

Liu waits, still chewing, for him to elaborate. He doesn't.

"Did you like it?"

Himuro shrugs. "It's just...you know the song, 'Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire'?"

"No," says Liu.

"It's a Christmas song. In the States."

"That's why you wanted to try roasted chestnuts?"

"Yeah," says Himuro.

He's too fucking cute; he can't be serious. He totally is, though, or he's at least honest enough. Why else would he want to, or at least, why else would he feel he hast to lie? (Aside from the semi-cryptic reasons he lies about everything.)

"It's only October," says Liu.

"It's betting cold, though."

Himuro transfers the chestnuts to his other hand and brushes his fingers against Liu's.


	4. Spell (kagahimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knb x nba

Being in love is like being under a spell. That's the way Taiga's always heard it explained, a sudden snap of the fingers and an overlay of sparkles on someone's face, a spotlight on them that sucks you in like dust into a vacuum. Taiga's not waiting for that to happen; as far as he's concerned it will or it won't and he can't control it. He's had crushes, sure, knots in his gut, sailor-made, his tongue the weight of an overinflated basketball in his mouth, sensitivity to their voice in his ears as if the frequency's been tuned just a nudge.

But it's the absence of bewitchment, and the absence of that kind of nervousness, that clues him in finally. (Okay, so he's slow on the uptake a lot, but in this case he's figured it out earlier than usual.) He thinks about Tatsuya all the time, but it's not some force pushing him there and keeping him like a staple stuck to the inside of a magnetic charger port. There's nothing pushing him, but he ends up thinking about Tatsuya. His hands, curled in his lap or shooting a basketball; holding a pen, or a plastic spoon as he attempts to stick it depe through a pint of ice cream. His voice on the phone, his voice when they finally meet in person, his voice when he's been stuck on a layover after a triple-OT game but he's in Chciago for an hour of the afternoon and he's spending that with Taiga. His words well-worn, yawns cracking like sunlight through sheer curtains. All of Tatsuya, Taiga could think for fucking ever and be nowhere close to done. He's nervous, and he feels a pull toward Tatsuya, but it's all coming from him and nowhere else.

The words hover on his tongue, weighty as helicopters but without bearing down. There are so many other things Taiga can say, has to say. But this is the one he releases first, and it hangs in the air between them beating its propellers noiselessly.

Tatsuya's face relaxes into a smile, and Taiga's body reciprocates, the taut strings around his back and shoulders slackening.

"I love you, too," says Tatsuya.

"Like..."

"Like," Tatsuya confirms, stepping closer and drawing his arms around Taiga's waist.

He smells good, like he always does, the way Taiga's clothes do after he spends the night at Tatsuya's, before he sticks them in the washing machine after the road trip's over. (Well, at this point it's even more obvious, isn't it?)

"Let me kiss you first?" says Tatsuya.

"Yeah," says Taiga.

He nudges Taiga softly, kisses him softer.


	5. Chicken (aomuramido)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the nba au where mura used to play for the celtics and now plays for the cavs

Atsushi gets to Popeye's maybe ten minutes after it opens. There's a Sox playoff game today, and the townies are already gathering outside the stadium, bundled up or warm from beer and weed already. The office workers aren't out on lunch yet, but a school-age kid is sitting at one of the tables. He nods at Atsushi.

"Respect."

Atsushi nods back, and the kid goes back to playing on his phone. (One of the better Celtics fan encounters, then.) He places his order, pays, and waits, filling up his soda cup with sweet teas. Nothing new on his phone, Daiki's probably asleep and he's hopefully coaxed Shintarou back into bed. (Getting him to agree to eating fried chicken there is another hurdle they'll have to clear, but the two of them together ought to be able to make Shintarou break. Or they'll just do it anyway.)

The T outbound is pretty deserted, and Atsushi places the bag of food on the seat next to him and helps himself to the first tender combo. IT's a little too hot, but the fries are the best kind of greasy, coating his fingers and leaving clear streaks on the translucent wax paper. Daiki can say all he wants, but Popeye's in Cleveland is not the same thing.

True to Atsushi's hopes, the living room and kitchen are free of either Daiki or Shintarou. He deposits his keys and phone on the coffee table and makes his way to the bedroom. Shintarou's asleep, glasses folded on the nightstand; Daiki's dozed off but he blinks and looks up when Atsushi closes the door.

"Ooh."

Atsushi sits down on the side of the bed, depositing the chicken and pushing the sleeves of his hoodie up. Daiki leans over to kiss him, and Shintarou stirs.

"You smell like fast food," says Shintarou.

"That's because I got some," says Atsushi.

The horror registers on his half-asleep face. "No."

"Yes," says Daiki, reaching a hand into the bag.

"My sheets--they'll get greasy--"

Atsushi leans across to kiss Sintarou, before he takes a drumstick for himself.


	6. Drooling (yamazaki + seto)

Seto, Yamazaki thinks, must always be having pleasant dreams. At least, he wouldn't sleep all the damn time if he was always having nightmares--but maybe that's why he has to sleep a lot, because he can't stay down for very long? Yamazaki's never seen him stare around, wide-eyed, or even jerk forward, but maybe that's something that only happens on television. An exaggerated trope, a cue, when most people start awake and blink, checking mentally that all of them is still there. Maybe he's trying to conquer his fear. Brave, but unless Seto's got really hidden depths, seems unlikely. It's more probable that he doesn't usually dream at all, and he's chasing one or another, trying to get a feeling back. (Or maybe he's secretly in some sort of Inception team, hijacking someone else's dream.)

All of that's unlikely, though, when Yamazaki just looks at Seto, drool dripping down his chin, eye mask askew, bangs messed up, like some half-assed attempt at looking like Hara. He probably doesn't dream, and it probably doesn't bother him.


	7. Exhausted (liuhimu)

Tatsuya yawns again, and Wei wants to tell him he's crazy. Again. But he holds his tongue, presses his lips firmly together, and flips the page in his history book. (If he were to say anything, Tatsuya would either smile and agree or get combative, and Wei can't take the first and doesn't want to deal with the second.)

Wei doesn't have to know Tatsuya as well as he does to know he's exhausted. The ring around his eye that can't pass for eyeliner, the yawns, the fact that he's been up since half past four and hasn't gone to sleep before midnight in the last week. He's got basketball, more shit he shouldn't be doing on top of that, drills and exercises he makes himself do until he practically drags himself into their dorm room only to sit down and work on essays for the eight American universities he's applying to. And then homework, if there's time.

He does that between classes, during lunch, nodding off in chapel with his head leaning against Wei's shoulder, the bible open in Wei's lap and the assigned reading in Tatsuya's. Wei's exhausted, too, but it feels like the wrong word when he's using it for Tatsuya already. Coach's workouts are brutal, and games are harder with Murasakibara still injured, especially knowing he's so close to coming back. Schoolwork is tough, and so is preparing for college entrance exams even in a cursory way (and far too early) when Wei's pretty sure he's going pro right away. But if he's exhausted, Tatsuya's--Wei doesn't know what.

Even he's got to have a physical limit, as often as he pushes it, rearing back and slamming his shoulders at a trolley on rusted tracks. At some point, there won't be any more inches left for it to give. How coherently can he write when he's in this state, anyway? If it makes sense to Tatsuya now, it sure as hell won't in the morning. And Wei's got reading to do, too, but fuck it. The person next to him will cover for him when he leaves the bible tucked into the back of the seat in front of him tomorrow.

"Bed."

Tatsuya looks up, jaw locked in the suppression of another yawn.

"My essay," he says.

"Tomorrow," says Wei. "Some of those aren't even due until January, so chill."

Tatsuya makes a face that's maybe supposed to be angry or harsh, but he just looks miserable. Wei sighs, patting the bed next to him.

"I'll proofread it for you. C'mere."

Tatsuya's hand hovers over the top of his laptop, trying to deny himself the most basic satisfaction for a little bit longer. He slams the laptop, though, and turns out the light.

Wei's still trying to arrange himself in bed when Tatsuya's breathing evens out.


	8. Star (robin, sharena)

"The constellations here are different from the ones in Ylisse," says Robin.

Sharena looks at her. It's easy to take Robin's remarks as critical when they're usually just observations, statements of fact. She's not getting at anything, really; she's inviting Sharena to keep the conversation up if she wishes, but not forcing it.

"What are they like?"

Robin shrugs. "They really didn't look like the things they represented. Your constellations seem to represent ideas more than specific things."

(Someone, Sharena can't remember which hero or even where they were form, had once told her something similar, that their homeland's constellations had a crab and a lion and an archer--odd, odder still that different cultures would adopt the same customs. Or maybe it's odd that Askran culture holds different ideals of the skies than Ylissean culture.)

"I like this, though," says Robin. "Food for thought."

Sharena wouldn't say that, but she supposes it might be food for thought for a visitor.

"If I come to Ylisse one day, would you show me?"

Robin nods, a small smile grabbing her mouth and pulling up its corners.


	9. Precious (taiga & tatsuya & alex)

There has never been a time since she met Tatsuya and Taiga that Alex hasn't wanted to protect them. They had, so immediately, so earnestly, gotten straight into her heart like a bad-angle shot from an overconfident shooter who, after that, doesn't seem quite so overconfident. They are young and reckless, shots and passes before words and thoughts, and they love basketball in such a pure, latched-on way that Alex had forgotten existed.

It had gotten easy to see basketball through the eyes of a cynic, the thing that you love, to which you give, carving out your insides like a pumpkin until the game watches you rot on the front steps and ceases to give back. Opportunities have been snatched away from Alex, from her college teammates, a reunion in a sports bar where they ask for the TV to be turned to college football and avoid the subjects that still are tender bruises and burns. Seeing Tatsuya and Taiga hurts the old wounds no less, but it's hard to focus on that when there's such joy and determination in their eyes. When they look at her like she's still got something to give to basketball--and maybe she does.

She can't protect them forever. She can't hold umbrellas over their heads; they grow too quickly, and basketball begins to betray them, too, in little ways every day. It's illogical and narcissistic to blame this on herself; they would have fallen this in love with basketball without her. They already had.

Alex doesn't know how to feel, watching Tatsuya fight the same losing battle against Taiga over again. But it still doesn't feel like the despair she's expecting, that she'd felt herself. They're both so tightly latched onto basketball that they won't let go; they won't let it shake them off.

"You didn't," Tatsuya says, years later.

"Yeah, I did," says Alex. "If you two hadn't found me, I don't know if I'd have picked up another basketball."

"That's not true," says Tatsuya.

Maybe. But it wouldn't be like this, and even though reality is like this, she'd still given up on it.

"If all it took was us..."

"He kept you in it, didn't he?"

(More or less, anyway, but Tatsuya's insatiable drive to win doesn't seem to matter quite so much against anyone other than Taiga.)

"Touche," Tatsuya says, finally, "But you did, too."


	10. Flowing (nebumibu)

"You're being creepy again, Ei-chan."

Eikichi raises an eyebrow. For all Kotarou knows, he could have just stopped under the window to adjust his hold on the grocery bags. Furthermore, it's not like Reo's hiding his music. He's playing the cello with the window open on the second floor; Eikichi doesn't have to try to listen.

"I'm not being creepy. Reo says it's distracting when he practices with me in the room."

"Uh-huh," says Kotarou.

"I'm sure he knows I can hear it."

"Then why are you standing where he can't see you?"

"Why do you care so much?" says Eikichi. "I like the way it sounds; Reo needs to practice; everyone's happy."

"But you want to get with Reo-nee. Reo-nee wants to get with you. You're just cockblocking yourself by listening from afar. He doesn't know 100% that you're listening; you haven't figured out he's hoping you'll hear it."

Eikichi stares at Kotarou. That seems to be the only appropriate reaction to all of that.

"You've been reading too much manga," Eikichi says finally.

Kotarou rolls his eyes. "You love him."

"That's...a little strong," says Eikcihi.

Above them, the line of the cello is still flowing; Eikich lowers his voice anyway.

"Are you trying to make him hear you so it'll be awkward between us?"

"It won't be," says Kotarou.

"He likes Akashi."

At that, Kotarou laughs.

"What? It's not funny."

"Akashi? He's like, I dunno. A favorite younger sibling."

"Look, it doesn't matter," says Eikichi. "Shut up and let me listen to the music."

"Chicken," says Kotarou.

Eikichi swings a grocery bag at him, and he only misses because he means to.


	11. Cruel (samatoki/juto)

The snap of a fresh set of gloves on Juto's palms--there's nothing like it. Sharp, like the call of a distant and cruel bird of prey, clear despite its distance or its normalcy of warning, that he needs a fresh pair for whatever's coming. It feels like, no matter how clear the horizon may seem, something's about to happen. A shift in gears, a loading gun, a charged shock. The gloves don't break or become useless as often as Juto needs to change them, so maybe it's just a symbol of his own wastefulness and decadence in the face of his nominal servitude to the public, like the cigarettes he doesn't finish. He's pretty predictable that way, for a guy who talks about the patterns criminals fall into and how easy it is to motivate them as much as he does. Maybe he realizes the level of his own hypocrisy and just keeps it up, the fucker. Typical.

Juto looks over, back at Samatoki. His eyes scan Samatoki's face; Samatoki stares straight back.

"Something on my face?"

"I can't look at you?"

"Fuckin' smartass," Samatoki grumbles, kicking the heel of his shoe against the floor.

"Don't damage the wood," says Juto.

"Shut up," says Samatoki.

He needs a smoke. Or maybe just to pull on Juto's fresh pair of gloves so they snap back, sharper than gunshots.


	12. Whale (kagahimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knb x nba

When Tatsuya spends too much time away from the ocean, he forgets what it's like. It becomes a facsimile, like the seven-second phone videos Taiga sends from the Chicago beach, obviously not a coastal shoreline to the point where it stops trying to be.

Tatsuya's parents took him to the beach the first (or second? Tatsuya wants to say first but it's so far back in time that it's blurred into the horizon when he tries to piece it out) weekend they were in LA. He'd trailed behind them, white sneakers pinching his feet (too soon to buy new ones after he'd just grown into these) while his parents had argued about the car and where to buy groceries. It must have been the second weekend, then, because Tatsuya had thought about the kids at school giving him funny looks and wished, for a second, that he could go back. Not that he'd left much behind in Japan, but it was just across the ocean (and the ocean looks the same on both sides). He could become a whale, a shark, a flying fish, to cross the gap.

"Tatsuya, hurry up!"

He can still hear the impatience in his mother's voice, but he can't quite hear the sand spreading under his feet or the wash of wave over wave over sand, smell the salt, see the way the sun had hung over the water.

He lives in a port city now, but too far from the beach, surrounded only by rivers and aqueducts and backyard pools. He has not wished to cross an ocean since then and the other times when Taiga was on the other side of it. But now it's only land dividing them, and the basketball season, the familiar waters there at the end, back home. But Tatsuya will forget each time he leaves, nostalgia and the photo-filter blur of his memory knocking it all off-kilter.

 _Take me surfing again this summer_ , he texts Taiga.

_Only if you don't give up and get frustrated so easy_

_who me? ;)_

Taiga doesn't reply.

_what if i wanna see your abs_

(Tatsuya doesn't expect a reply to that, either; he's only thinking about swimming under midday smog, playing footsie underwater, his hands dragging lower on Taiga's abs and Taiga managing to keep treading. The look on his face, like he'd wanted to kiss Tatsuya senseless. Nothing of the drag of the water, the sensation of bobbing in the current, the way the salt had smelled then--but he can't help having not focused on those particulars in the moment.)


	13. Guarded (kagahimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knb x nba

Taiga is open, transparent in his meaning and in his affections. He's always been this way, even as the world around him (and them) has grown murkier, sinking in a river full of silt. His luminescence makes some things almost startlingly clear, and that's something Tatsuya's (not always consciously) grown to depend on. Taiga's never guarded with Tatsuya, even during their fights, even when it's been months or years between their meetings.

"I mean," Aomine says. "He's blunt, but he's not forthcoming about everything. Like, Satsuki and Tetsu are like that, but not in that way...like, he's not subtle, but he's got layers. Like a sub-basement."

Tatsuya raises an eyebrow. It's not just the awfulness of the simile, but a fundamental misunderstanding of Taiga. (Discounting the fact that he can be subtle, and sneaky as hell, when he wants to be.) Even when he's not forthcoming, it's all there on the same level, visible and tangible.

"He's not like that with you--like, obviously he trusts you more and stuff, but--I don't know."

"Is there something you want to talk about with him?" says Tatsuya. "You can just ask, you know."

"Yeah, well...I don't want to misstep. Like, we're friends but we're not that close," says Aomine.

"You're closer to him than you are to me."

"But I know what you're touchy about, and it's different stuff--ugh."

Tatsuya watches for a minute as Aomine tortures himself, trying to recover from a misstep that may or may not have happene.d He's not that cruel, though; he places a hand on Aomine's shoulder.

"You're fine. Talk to him."

* * *

Aomine's only in town to play the Nets; Tatsuya's got the game on in the background while he makes dinner and talks with Taiga on the phone. Aomine drops in a layup; the Cavs are now up twelve.

"Be nice to him," Tatsuya says. "You make him nervous."

"That's not how he acts around me," says Taiga. "All this I'll beat you crap."

"He thinks you're hard to get to know. That you're not that open."

"I mean, I'm not," says Taiga. "About everything, anyway."

"No one is."

"Still, do you--I mean, it's hard for me to know what you're thinking a lot of the time, but not as hard for me to get to know you because I do know you already," says Taiga.

Tatsuya considers this. Another blind sport he has about Taiga, or maybe a larger part of the same gigantic half of a field of vision wide blind spot he's got already? Tatsuya sighs.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Taiga echoes. "Hey, did you see that block?"

Tatsuya turns back to the TV; one of the Cavs is blocking a dunk on the slow-motion replay; it still looks too fast to be real.

"Nice," says Tatsuya. "Shit, though. That'll be tough to beat."


	14. Clock (garciraki)

Masako had memorized the time difference between her and Alex before she'd memorized Alex's smile, her laugh, her tired voice when she's up too late, her hands cold in the winter air because she refuses gloves. A cycle, of when Alex is otherwise occupied and when she might not be, that they'd both had to roughly synchronize, and they still have to keep afloat, treading water with weights on their backs. The same weight, shared, really, because it can't be kept up one-sided. (What would be the use? It would be like pouring water into a cup that's not there, resulting in nothing more than a damp table.) A weight is not necessarily a burden, though it can feel that way when you wonder if it will ever go away.

It's like fitting extra gears into a clock sometimes, when they're both busy and shuffling around seconds and minutes, up too late or up too early, a strangely-timed lunch break, ten minutes shaved off a commitment here or there. Masako doesn't want to dominate Alex's life. She doesn't want to bend everything toward her like an electromagnet twisting a fork. And she doesn't feel neglected, an overripe fruit clinging to the tree that will soon drop it to bruise and burst open. She's got more pride than to admit it if she did, anyway--but she's still not that needy. A little, yeah, but so is Alex, like one tine out of the four on matching forks bending toward each other to touch and knot themselves together.


	15. Weak (aomido)

"I am feeling very strong," says Aomine.

Midorima looks at him. Aomine's thrown aside his bedcovers, but the last time he'd tried to walk to the bathroom he'd nearly fallen and vomited as son as he'd swung his legs over the side. The fly on his pajama pants is undone; it should be impossible for his hair to be mussed in this many different directions.

"You're still sick, Aomine. Your fever--"

Aomine sticks out his tongue. He is absolutely a child. Midorima places a bookmark in the novel in his lap and sets it down on the floor, next to Aomine's desk chair--which is actually quite comfortable (all things considered). Were Aomine healthier, Midorima might try to coax him into doing homework again. Then again, he'll have to hold off on that for a while, not that he expects Aomine to remain sick for that long. It's more about the headache arguing with Aomine about school gives him, similar to the one sick Aomine is giving him right now.

"Midorima..." Aomine whines.

"Yes?"

"You're making that face again. Like you're arguing with yourself in your mind."

"I am not," says Midorima. "Who would do that?"

"You," says Aomine.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed again; this time he plants both feet on the ground. No swaying, no motioning for the bowl beside his bed. Midorima stands up; Aomine stands up. And immediately he stumbles on nothing, pitches forward--he clings to Midorima's arms and, somehow, does not pull them from their sockets. Midorima scowls, inching closer so it's not quite so uncomfortable.

Aomine's skin is warm; he adjusts his grip so he's sagging against Midorima's shoulder, wet mouth against his shirt.

"Aww," says Aomine. "You really do care."

Midorima huffs. If Aomine weren't so sick.


	16. Angular (nijihimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [One One Knee](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/devils_shuu) verse

The practice rink is ghostlike in the night. The crew had left some of the lights on for Shuu, but the bleachers are a dark mass beyond the glass, and the floodlights above them alternate on-off. There are shadows on the scraped-up ice, and it looks like an old-fashioned photograph of pond hockey, minus the wide smiles and hand-knit sweaters and skates not optimized for anything on apple-cheeked white Canadian boys, a cloudy afternoon in greyscale.

Tatsuya's gotten better at this whole skating thing, even though he still prefers walking or running. It's weird to see the world rushing at him like it does when he takes off, when his feet are stilld ragging through the floor, cutting the ice in his wake. And it's stranger still to add hockey moves to the mix, like singing and playing an instrument at once. It should be easy; it looks easy. It's mostly frustrating, but Tatsuya's lucky to have such a good teacher.

Shuu wraps his arms around Tatsuya's waist, more at ease on the ice than he is standing on the linoleum floors of Tatsuya's kitchen. The thought makes Tatsuya smile; he leans in and Shuu's hands come around to adjust his grip on the stick.

"You're close."

Tatsuya sighs. Basketball wasn't that easy, either; it still isn't. But having to memorize grips and stances without the continuum of reference points he has for basketball is like being ten years old all over again. It won't stick in his muscles.

"Don't get too caught up," says Shuu.

"I'm not," says Tatsuya. "What's the plan for today?"

"Shooting," says Shuu. "I want to try different angles with you."

The drills he wants to do are similar to basketball ones, enough that Tatsuya doesn't need an explanation, But as he skates to the far circle, the comparison falls away. Different stance. Different objective. Shuu's hand on his hip, the small of his back, lingering before he puts his glove back on. Tatsuya grits his teeth. He won't let Shuu down.

Shuu squeezes his shoulder, a rebuttal of words Tatsuya hadn't even said.


	17. Swollen (taiga & tatsuya)

Tatsuya's knee is swollen for a week after they go to the abandoned gym. He touches it, sitting on the sidelines while Taiga practices, and frowns at how his finger doesn't suddenly deflate it, and how tender it must be. He doesn't say it hurts, but Taiga knows it does. Even if his knee is just stiff or weird, he'd be playing if it were okay. And sometimes it hurts and you don't want to say anything because it's redundant and thinking about it makes it hurt worse.

Taiga quits practicing earlier, and badgers Tatsuya to help him with his homework. Tatsuya likes feeling helpful; he likes feeling needed, and Taiga's grades really do need a boost. (If only the English language weren't so weird. It gets even weirder now that Taiga knows it and it's not just a mass of odd inflections and slurred syllables.) They go over the book Taiga has to read together, Tatsuya flipping through the pages and recalling having learned this stuff last year.

Taiga listens, but the story is boring; even the way Tatsuya tells it he can't muster enough energy to care about some horse.

"Why can't we just read about basketball?"

Tatsuya smiles and reaches out to ruffle Taiga's hair. Taiga folds his arms; he's not a little kid. He's only a few inches shorter than Tatsuya, and he's bound to catch up soon.

"I'd like that, too," says Tatsuya.

When he says it, he looks happier than Taiga's seen him since last week, before they got stuck. He's not sure how to keep that look on Tatsuya's face permanently, or even make it reappear more--it's not like feeding pieces of turkey out of the fridge to a stray cat after his nanny says not to. But he'll get there like with height, or basketball, or English.

"Okay," says Tatsuya. "You really need to read it, Taiga."

Taiga doesn't complain, just scoots closer to Tatsuya so they can hold the book between them.


	18. Bottle (nijihimu)

Shuuzou spins the CD on one finger; Tatsuya glances up from the magazine he's reading.

"What you got there?"

"Meditation CD. Took it out of the library."

Tatsuya raises his eyebrow and goes back to his book as Shuuzou pops the disk into his laptop and pushes it closed. The computer hums as it tries to read the contents; Shuuzou scowls at it.

"The therapist we all see because of my dad recommended it. He said family meditation is helpful, but we could do it separately."

"Do you think it'll work?"

"No idea," says Shuuzou.

"Is it one of those you-are-serene-and-strong deals?"

The skepticism is palpable in Tatsuya's voice, like curdled milk accidentally poured in cereal. Shuuzou sighs.

"I really doubt they'd recommend that."

Tatsuya shrugs. "Why, though?"

"We're stressed, and it's supposed to, like, relieve the negative emotions we're bottling up."

(And, Shuuzou thinks, all things considered he's doing pretty well with this; if it works it would have been better for him if he'd had it as a punk middle schooler. But he'd promised he'd try, and if it' does work, Tatsuya needs it at least as much as he does.)

"You up for it?" says Shuuzou.

"Sure," says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou feels a little stupid at first, lying on the bed trying to let his muscles relax and not think about Tatsuya next to him, gravity pulling his hair off his forehead, soft hands with palms toward the ceiling. But if he tries to listen, it works; if he focuses on his stiff back and sore ankle he forgets about his dad, about Tatsuya fighting on the street and keeping his words strung too tightly together.

After the track ends, Shuuzou lies still, eyes closed. Tatsuya's breathing is soft and slow beside him, and when Shuuzou finally pushes himself up, he sees Tatsuya sleeping. He looks a bit less worn than usual, and maybe Shuuzou's just seeing what he wants to see, but he'll take it.


	19. Scorched (kagahimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hockey au (yotes!kagahimu)

Home was, for years, LA. The sprawling, ugly city with its clogged, winding highways that Taiga had reluctantly become accustomed to was also the place where he'd learned to take the train and beat someone in a scuffle with his feed planted on the ground, and where he'd met Tatsuya. And, of course, obviously, hockey, street hockey and roller hockey and occasional afternoons at the ice rink, goals and passes and hits and steals, his body crashing to the ice or against the boards.

He'd felt it coming back, that first time when he'd been alone in Tokyo for over a year, and again when he'd been there still but not so alone but had come back to change schools and play for a hockey powerhouse. Again, every trip ack home from college. The first summers back after he'd gone pro.

Somewhere, sometime, it had changed, reversed itself, home whites now the road whites, his mindset following behind, lagging like a shitty dial-up connection. He and Tatsuya go back to LA every summer to spend time with their parents and with Alex, and at the two-story house Tatsuya had bought when money that he'd earned all on his own, at this uantity, was still a novelty. But on the way back, Tatsuya dozing off in the passenger seat of Taiga's truck as they head east on the interstate to another time zone, it feels like popping his jaw back into place after yawning.

He wasn't hurting from being gone this long; he's got Tatsuya with him. But he misses the peculiarities particular to the layout of Phoenix, and the scorched red dirt reminiscent of an artist's rendition of Mars. Jogging in the mountains, no layer of smog to break through and breathe. The cashier at the taqueria and the barista at the bakery who know him and his order, and the people in the grocery store with Tatsuya's name spread across their backs, and the asphalt parking lot of their driveway that functions as a street rink--he hasn't been missing it so acutely, but it feels better to know they're close.

"Home soon?" says Tatsuya, face still pressed to the window.

"Yeah," says Taiga, pressing the gas pedal a little lower.


	20. Breakable (kagahimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set in the same verse as [This You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454483), but that fic's not required reading. Taiga's an NYC firefighter and Tatsuya's a pro basketball player.

Hundred-year-old brick buildings just don't seem as breakable as they are. Taiga had been happy enough to get the uptown firehouse gig, the only one that had been above 59th street when he'd finished training. No fragile glass spires, like liquor bottles placed on a precarious top shelf, ninety stories in the air and right in the mittle of downtown gridlock--and this station's close to the hospital, too. Most of the stuff he deals with his self-contained, a small scorch in a kitchen, a wire spark that leaves an apartment or two uninhabitable for a month but harms no one. The squat brick edifices are sturdy; they can take the heat--most of the time.

It's the one time they don't that sticks out in everyone's mind like the loose floorboard you always trip on and have to put back into place once you've stopped swearing at it. The one time they're called in as backup for a fire at 144th and Broadway, where the trucks are backed up downtown nearly to the next subway stop and the hoses are pugged in five blocks the other way and there's no time to think about logistics, just get out of the truck and into the line of duty.

The building is clear of occupants, but the fire's blazing still, rising out of the hollowed-out top two floors. The windows are blown out and an entire wall is gone--no debris on the inside, none scattered onto the roof of the nightclub next door. But they need people everywhere, to man the hoses and go up the ladders, corral civilians and work with the cops, one thing and the next and the next.

Taiga can't keep track of time; it's still night (clouds, no moon) and it's still all going on. The fire is dying back but that just means they need to work faster, kill it harder. At some point Taiga looks up and the sky looks lighter, but it must be the reflection of the fire of the lights of the trucks and the TV crews.

At some point, someone yanks him away; it takes a few seconds for Taiga to recognize his chief.

"Shift's over. We'll throw some fresh bodies at it; get some rest."

The smoke rising is weak; the sky is truly lighter. The fire is invisible from Taiga's angle on the ground. He heads up Broadway, a quick detour to the station before home--no, Tatsuya's place; he's not letting himself drive--but a flash of movement outside the CityMD on 146th catches his eye.

"Taiga!"

It's Tatsuya, here, at Whatever-the-fuck-in-the-morning, so close to the fire--he throws his arms around Taiga before Taiga can respond.

"Hey," Taiga says.

He's still in his gross, heavy, smoky gear; he probably smells like death. Tatsuya's head is buried in his shoulder.

"I'm okay," Taiga says.

Tatsuya still doesn't let go, and Taiga doesn't want him to.


	21. Drain (himuraki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vampire AU

Tatsuya's a messy eater. Like a child, tearing through the bodies of fallen deer, blood (precious blooD) falling to the snow, steaming in a miniature geyser. It sticks in red-brown trails on his pale face, guts sticking too his teeth before he licks them off. If Masako had a heart still, it would be beating faster at the sight of so much. Instead, she drains his leavings, drains a deer or two of her own--young, old, either, the blood's the same--and then feasts on him. The marks of puncture never stay on his neck. The only wounds he has are from before he turned, long before he came to her. (The eye, the scars, the moles.)

Blood runs into her mouth, thick and dark, sticky and steady. Tatsuya trembles, his arm tight around Masako's waist. She leans back, admiring the twin punctures, the blood bubbling against the pale of Tatsuya's neck, bared to her just the way she likes it.

He looks at her with such devotion, such undisguised affection written on his face. As if she can't see or sense it (he's been living among humans for far too long; one day, perhaps, he will tell her why, and what it was all about, though Masako already has a good set of suspicions on her own). But young ones are always arrogant, clinging to the humanity that they've already lost like an iceberg that's melted beneath their feet.

Masako will be there to fish him out when he falls below the surface, warm him up and tell him what a fool he's been. He'll know already, but she can't fault him too badly when she'd once been there herself. After all, he can hardly learn from mistakes he does not know.


	22. Expensive (diceriou)

Food is expensive. It takes money (or some rough equivalent) to make money, and right now Dice doesn't have any. Gentaro and Ramuda won't pick up their phones, and there aren't any friendly faces around to wear down for a bite to eat or a little bit of cash. Dice sighs, breath trailing out of his mouth visible like steam form fresh, hot, juicy buns--fuck. That's really not a helpful thought.

At least he's sitting on the ground, where the smell of piss and stale tobacco and grime acts as enough of an appetite suppressant for now. But it would be nice to have some hot cocoa, or soup, or plain hot water just to warm himself up. He rubs the dice in his pocket, feeling the satisfying friction, and frowns.

A rustle right beside him, and the sound of someone large and careful, the weight of them. Dice isn't surprised it's Riou, but he is quite gratified to receive the thermos Riou holds out to him. The plastic lid is warm, the only place from where heat can try to escape. Dice unscrews it and inhales the wonderful scent of something savory and rich. A little fat floats at the surface, but it's not there to be looked at. Dice pours some into the cap and takes a sip.

It's good; it's hot enough to nearly burn his mouth but the heat spreads inside of him and the scent fills his nose. IT's maybe ten seconds before he's downed half of what's there, and becomes aware of Riou's gaze, sharp and steady and focused on him.

"Thanks," says Dice. "It's delicious."

"It's rat bone and dandelion flower," says Riou.

Dice forgoes the lid and takes a sip straight from the thermos. It's amazing how Riou makes food this rich from scraps and small things, amazing how he can take a rat from the gutter and turn it into this. What the fuck.

Dice pulls his free hand from his pocket and pats Riou's knee with it. He leaves it there, and Riou covers it with his own--very large, as warm as the soup, maybe more.


	23. Muddy (nijihimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On One Knee](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/devils_shuu) verse

"It's raining," says Tatsuya. "Are you sure you don't want to go back home and watch a movie?"

"I'm sure," says Shuu.

It's April, the time when winter begins to relinquish its hold on the city, black icy snow running down the drains and off the sidewalks, puddles at the curb remaining unfrozen, buds at the tips of bare trees (maybe, if you squint, if you want them to be there). And there is rain instead of snow, still cold enough to war aj acket, the humidity not yet cloying. Perfect for a day spent in bed with hot coffee and time to forget that his season's over, for Tatsuya. Perfect for the golf course, for Shuu. On some level, Tatsuya gets the urge to hit things and direct his anger outward, at all the things he couldn't do to get the Knicks into the playoffs, but on another, he's fucking exhausted.

At least there's no one else on the train this time of day and this far up the 1 line; once they pass 168th they're alone except for someone sleeping at the far end and a young woman reading a library book. There's enough room to talk and to ever so casually touch, and to think that it might be better to be lying in bed right now.

"Don't sulk," says Shuu.

"Can you play golf when it's muddy like this?"

"Yeah," says Shuu. "Why do you think golf umbrellas are a thing?"

"...Accidents?"

Shuu throws Tatsuya a look, and Tatsuya smiles back. He does enjoy golf, for the most part (even if Shuu still beats him every time), and it'll just be him and Shuu out on the golf course. Probably allowed to screw around a little more, because the corporate fat cats will go somewhere else for their so-called business outings today. Still, though, muddy grass, cold rain, eighteen holes.

It'll make Shuu happy. So really, there's no argument further than that.

The young woman closes her book and gets off at Dyckman; Tatsuya laces his hand in Shuu's.


	24. Chop (himualex)

The division of labor between them strikes its own balance. Some part of Alex had feared that, after having lived on her own for so long, she'd be hesitant to relinquish control, or that she'd default to doing everything, but she'd underestimated Tatsuya again. (He's all too happy to defy expectations, and apparently unhurt by the assumption, and, well--it's a reasonable fear.)

He folds the laundry (which Alex hates); she takes out the recycling (but not always the trash); he cleans the bathtub; she changes the light bulbs. He cooks dinner, most of the time, but it's more a pride thing than anything else. Tatsuya loves admiring his own creations, vain as he is, something Alex finds endearing more often than annoying. But she likes cooking, too; this is the kitchen in which she'd forced herself to learn to cook, and she knows the fork-scrapes in each pan by heart. So even when she hasn't offered, and when she feels like it, and when Tatsuya's not hell bent on doing it himself (which, all things considered, is not as often as Alex had thought); she'll chop vegetables or take over the pan, stir a sauce or add more spice. Their process could stand to be more organized, but it works for them. A collaboration that's not precisely even but balances their household at a micro level.

They bump elbows at the counter, on the stove top, over the sink. But the kitchen's not too small, and the incidental contact is all a bonus. (And sometimes bumps become nudges and grabs and the vegetables burn, but Alex likes hers crisp and smoky, thanks very much.)


	25. Prickly (susaima)

Imayoshi tries not to take too much offense at Aomine's name-calling. Truthfully, it's easy not to when it's directed at Sakurai or Wakamatsu, but when it's him--he'd really rather not be thought of as evil by an arrogant underclassman again. Harsh, occasionally underhanded (but only when the hand is forced), but not evil. (Then again, Imayoshi had made the mistake of asking Susa if Aomine could really think that, and the sarcasm-laden answer he'd received had really not been necessary.)

Speaking of Susa, Imayoshi takes particular offense to Aomine comparing his most consistent forward to a cactus. Because it's true, and not in the surface-level offensive way that Aomine means it--so it shouldn't be annoying or frustrating at all, except it is. Imayoshi's usually quite good at letting inconsequential things like this roll off him, but this sticks like sloppy footwork, a hideous pattern in his brain. Of course it's because it had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to figure Susa out on his own (and it had only really accelerated when Susa had called him out on why exactly he'd been spending so much time looking) and yet Aomine had stumbled on Susa's essence in the dark. He's not as stupid as people assume he is, but this isn't cleverness. It's--it doesn't mater what it is.

He's not threatened; Susa's not a potted plant Aomine's trying to steal from him. And if Aomine has actual romantic feelings for anyone who's not a magazine model, Imayoshi would be awfully surprised. But still, Susa's his cactus, soft-looking but prickly.

"What do you want? You're giving me that sappy look again," says Susa.

"Only you," Imayoshi says, leaning across the table.

Susa expertly holds up his book, deflecting Imayoshi. Rude. Imayoshi sticks his tongue out, and Susa pretends to ignore him.

"Act cuter," says Imayoshi.

"You act cuter," says Susa.

"You want me to sit on your lap?"

Susa looks as if he regrets saying anything. Imayoshi smiles wider; that's his cactus.


	26. Stretch (haikaga)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On One Knee](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/devils_shuu) verse

The lockout's been officially over for a few weeks now, and Taiga's known it for a bit longer than that (it helps to have a roommate who's a PA rep). But despite everyone signing on the dotted line and taking photos wearing strained smiles, there's not enough time left to cram in even part of a season. So Taiga had finished up the year in Italy with Tatsuya, but the days had dragged worse than someone fouling him right under the hoop and pulling him down.

It's not really over until he's at home with Shou, until he barely has to stretch his arm out to touch him. Right there, his hair still offseason-long and impossibly messy, grey roots peeking through, sleeves pushed up (all the new tattoos everywhere, popping up like some people get freckles) as he taps on some rhythm game on his phone. The sound's off, but Shou's brow is furrowed in concentration. He's biting his lip, which he'll say he doesn't do when Taiga calls him out. This is the exact thing (one of many) that Taiga's thought about, stuck in some hotel room watching Formula One with Italian announcers, half asleep on the team bus,s taring out at the old city or town outside his window, much older than Chicago or Toronto or LA or wherever else he'd be with Sgou. Cold tea on the table, Shou swearing when he loses the stage.

"You could try at a lower difficulty," says Taiga.

Shou drops his phone onto the couch, still scowling. "Too easy."

He seems no longer preoccupied, and Taiga reaches out, only a few inches, to pat his thigh. Still harder than titanium; even injured, Shou'd kept up his workouts.

"I missed you."

It's redundant to say out loud, but Taiga can't say it enough; a few words aren't enough to convey the breadth and depth of how much he's missed Shou. More than Lake Michigan, still frozen over outside this apartment. More than keeping this close to him for this long can convey.

"Missed you, too," says Shou. "C'mere and get me a high score."


	27. Thunder (muramido)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knb x nba (celtics!mura)

The days are short and it rains all the time, brown leaves sticking to the soles of Atsushi's shoes and refusing to scrape themselves off on the doormat. Shintarou huffs, always, at Atsushi tracking the leaves barely a quarter of a meter into the house, until he can sit down and take them off. It's like things were back in Akita, but with more Shintarou, Atsushi so disoriented by the weather he forgets if it's supposed to be fall or spring.

When the thunder rolls outside, Atsushi closes his eyes and it falls into place. Spring, floral arrangements for sale, grimy ice melting finally, the wearing down of his muscle and bone with the season. Shintarou, asleep beside him, oblivious to the thunder from being out so deeply, from the exhaustion he won't admit to.

The thunder's far away, maybe over the river, soft like the engine of a car in good working order. Shintarou won't wake up, and if he doesn't wake up he'll stay in bed on a morning when they really ought to. No practice, no game, enough food in the fridge for now. Atsushi pulls the coverlet up a little higher, shifting closer to Shintarou. The sound of his breathing mixes with the sound of the rain outside, a pleasant rhythm. Shintarou's hand lies face-up on top of the blanket, untaped, as if primed to palm a basketball. (Maybe it is; maybe he'd read somewhere that this is the optimal position in which to sleep.)

The day is young, though; lying in bed and not sleeping is a waste of it. Atsushi kisses Shintarou's shoulder, too soft to wake him, and turns his face into the pillow.


	28. Gift (aohimu)

How do you acknowledge a gift when the person who gave it to you doesn't know about it? Aomine's not the type of person to be overly sentimental or feel debts of gratitude as if they're of the utmost importance. But this just seems important, especially because Himuro doesn't know. Satsuki and Kise and Tetsu and Kagami had all known, some of them acknowledging it in a more smug way than others, what they'd done to help him along. Ryou hadn't, but telling him was straightforward, even if he did wring his hands and look like he hadn't really believed what he was hearing. But all that had been a while ago, and thanking people for showing you something about basketball isn't something anyone does, really, especially not Aomine.

And it's not a gift, except maybe it is, but really it's more like--an example, unintentional, just Himuro being himself. Methodical, approaching basketball like a puzzle to be figured out, an obstacle at which to hack away until it falls. Aomine had wanted to shout at him that he was doing it all wrong, until, suddenly, he'd understood Himuro's perspective. Like someone replicating a priceless artwork with no reference and no training, completely stumbling about and trusting the faultlines of his memory until he'd made it his own. Ridiculous, remarkable.

(All of this is completely beside any personal involvement Aomine's had with Himuro, as much as anything involving him can be. Murasakibara had introduced them and left them to their own devices and then they'd started hanging out and while that had always led to basketball in the beginning, now it only usually does. But not being able to say this when Himuro's his boyfriend and his most consistent one-on-one opponent makes everything almost unbearably difficult.)

But Himuro's approach is so unlike Aomine's own that int nearly folds back over itself and becomes the same, or at least it comes from the same place even if it comes out different. And seeing that, every angle and position, every motion, does something to Aomine. Intentional or not, it feels like a gift, a parcel dropped into his lap with red stickers featuring graphics of broken wine glasses all over. And saying something could send the parcel tumbling to the floor, sure to crack. Aomine says it anyway.

"Thanks."

Himuro looks at him, expression as opaque as a metal front door. "For?"

"You know."

Himuro doesn't reply, but the next time he wins their tipoff, it's obvious he gets it.


	29. Double (garcirakihimu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nba au, tatsuya is a player & alex and masako are coaches

Masako does not stagger. Nor does she limp, despite the way her loafers dig into the side of her feet (they're broken in now; they have to be after a game that long, but the damage is already done). Her body is a little sore--okay, maybe stiff, too, as she climbs out of her cab, legs screaming at the sudden movement. She's too young to feel this bad; she scolds her legs under her breath and turns toward her building, digging for the keys in her bag as the cab drives away. When she looks up, her back protests, and the front door is open. Tatsuya leans against it.

"You should be in bed," she says. "Don't you have a game tomorrow?"

"You should be in bed," Tatsuya counters. "And you'd wake us both up anyway."

"Alex--"

"Is half-asleep. We both stayed up for your double-OT, though."

Masako gives Tatsuya her most reproachful look, though it's long since stopped having that effect (if it ever did). He does have a game tomorrow, and thus so does Alex, and they need to be up early, but all the same she's glad to have Tatsuya next to her. Masako stifles a yawn.

"I'm glad you yelled at that asshole ref," says Tatsuya. "He always tries to pulls hit like that at the end of games."

"I'm not," says Masako. "Shouldn't have lost my temper."

"Most of my team would agree with me."

Masako snorts--the approval of a bunch of hypercompetitive young men is not something she's after. But she does appreciate the sentiment.

She should take off her suit, take a shower and scrub the sweat and grime off now. She should, but Alex is taking her hand and kissing her and Tatsuya is tugging her toward the bed, and she is absolutely not just about to collapse. But maybe, just this once, it might be okay.


	30. Jolt (himualex)

Feeling this way toward Tatsuya is like putting your hand too close to a power strip, the sudden jolt of electricity passing through the air by your finger. The strip's supposed to protect against it, the way Alex watching Tatsuya grow up was supposed to protect her against this. He's like a much-younger brother, a kid, still, but--at twenty-four he's not, and at thirty-eight Alex can't lie to herself like that. It's not an infatuation or a brief realization, like the barista at the coffee shop getting a new haircut and then her fingers touching Alex's when she hands back the change, or one of Alex's friends getting back in touch after a while and Alex really noticing the shade of their eyes. This is something building, a tide rising so slowly she doesn't notice until it's about to break the levy.

Tatsuya's always looked that way at her, precocious when he was still below her shoulder, buried but still obvious when he'd finally reached her eye level, careful and measured now but still present. And, noting that, not wanting it to go away, is what's alerted her in the first place to her own feelings.

They're both adults. It's more likely this will pass and their attentions will turn to other people and other things. Alex repeats this to herself, even if it might not be true of Tatsuya. Feeling what she already does seems a violation of trust, and of their relationship. But she's not his teacher anymore, and he's not a kid trying to grow up too fast, and what are they, really? Some sort of in-between thing, between what they'd been and what they will be, whatever that is.

When Tatsuya kisses her, not like a kid, if Alex expects anything it's the full surge of an electric shock. But it odesn't feel like that at all. She's reminded of nothing else, stranded in the moment as if waiting for a distant train. As if everything was leading here from the moment she'd noticed her own feelings.


	31. Slice (kagahimu)

Some things remain as fixed points in memory, no matter how many times they're processed. Others change. Still others sip through holes and cracks, pathways vanishing behind them, irretrievable except by supreme strokes of luck, so it's a good thing Taiga's pretty damn lucky. He's been thinking about the first time he'd met Tatsuya for weeks now. Nothing in particular had jogged that memory; he hadn't walked past the court or seen someone who looked like one of the kids they'd played with or seen an old photo. It's just there, resting behind a barrier in his mind he can't quite make out. The sight (and the sound and the feeling) of Tatsuya's first shot, slicing the air eludes him. He wants to see it again, though Tatsuya's shot's changed so much since then. It might mess up his form if he even tried to do it.

Still. Tatsuya's memory is like a supercomputer when it comes to anything basketball; even if he can't do it he'll remember the motion. Or he'll remember the day better than Taiga does; he'd been older then.

Asking should be esasy, but the thought, the worry that it won't do anything, keeps the words from coming out until they force their way past Taiga's lips like a headstrong forward blowing by the defense.

"You know that shot you used to do? When we were kids, like..." He mimes the motion, badly.

Tatsuya smiles. "Yeah."

He's holding the basketball they've been playing with, still; he's far away and at a bad angle from the net, but he pivots and adjusts his stance. The snap of his wrists is quick, and the ball cuts through the air just as it had all those years ago. Taiga can feel it now, the tenuous grasp at what basketball was and the realization that this is what it could be. He could do that. Maybe not that exact shot, but--why not?

"Good enough for you?" says Tatsuya.

"More than," says Taiga.


End file.
